


Turn Me On

by Startedwith1Whisper



Category: The Following
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex, Surveillance, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:30:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Startedwith1Whisper/pseuds/Startedwith1Whisper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe diversifies from Poe a bit to bother Ryan in the most intimate of ways, but ends up getting bothered himself. Sneaky sexy phone sex ensues!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Me On

**Author's Note:**

> Story title is taken from David Guetta and Nicki Minaj's song of the same name. The song has nothing to do with the story, but I thought the title seemed appropriate for my content.  
> The poem quoted, of course, is Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress," and actually is considered one of the best seduction poems in the English language. I read it in school and felt that Joe wouldn't mind diversifying his literary tastes a bit if it meant he could get to Ryan in this particular manner!  
> I wanted this to be sexy, simultaneously classy and explicit, with some classic literary techniques included.  
> I own nothing mentioned.

“Did you know that there is one poem in the English language that is considered the ultimate seduction poem, Ryan? Young men in university are said to memorise it in the belief that it will enhance their love lives.”

The second the words slide silkily through his cell phone, Ryan knows that nothing good can come from this conversation, but he decides to buckle down and roll with it. “Nah, I must’ve missed that memo in college. What is it, Joe?”

A small smile plays at the corners of Joe’s mouth as he sits in his room at his latest hideout. “‘To His Coy Mistress’ was the poem, my dear Agent, and the poet was Andrew Marvell. I know, I know, it’s not Poe, what a surprise—but one must have some balance in one’s life.”

Ryan, with some difficulty, recalls the memories of a college lit class he had taken freshman year. “Marvell, Marvell—yeah, I’ve heard of him. Wasn’t he one of those really spacy metaphysical poets, like Herbert glorifying the fall of man and Donne comparing his girlfriend’s bug bite to the sex they had and all that weird shit?”

Despite his deep, almost obsessive love of literature, Joe can’t help but chuckle at Ryan’s obviously skimmed-over but oddly accurate “average dude” assessment of metaphysical poetry. “Yes, Marvell was a metaphysical poet, but ‘To His Coy Mistress’ is not so, as you put it, ‘spacy’ as all that. In fact, it’s fairly straightforward for the time it was written. Would you like me to read it to you?”

Skepticism rings clear in Ryan’s mind. “Is there a catch to this? Is this a foreshadowing of your next crime? Do you want something in return?”

Joe’s inflection changes to an all-out purr. “Oh, no, nothing of the sort. I shall foreshadow my next ‘crime,’ but that will come later. Right now all you need do is listen.”

After a moment of consideration, Ryan shrugs. “Look, I really don’t care either way, but I have a feeling you’re going to do it anyway, so why don’t you just go ahead?”

“I apologise for the constant references to femininity, ‘lady’ et al, but it is what it is. You know I mean you in all your broken male glory, Ryan.” After the disclaimer, Joe starts in: “‘Had we but world enough, and time,/This coyness, lady, were no crime.’”

At the mere sound of the other man’s recitation Ryan flushes, blood instantly flowing to his face and—well, **other** —areas. He’s filled with shame at being so completely, instinctually worked up by his nemesis, the serial killer he’s chasing and trying to recage, but he can’t help it. Claire still doesn’t fully trust him, and it’s been so long since he’s had anything like this with anyone. He gulps, focusing all of his mental faculties on keeping the swallow’s small sound from getting to his tormentor.

Joe smirks. Not only can he feel the delicious tension that’s always existed between the two of them, but he hears the lovely faint echo of Ryan’s throat muscles contracting as he swallows, sees the scarlet bloom on his pretty, angular face. Best of all, _Ryan doesn’t know he can see him, doesn’t know he hacked into all the cameras at FBI headquarters just for this_. He has awakened Ryan’s dormant sexual side, previously only expressed in the day the agent broke his fingers. He doesn’t know why that was so sexy for both of them, just that it was. He feels the stirrings in himself as well, and they drive his voice to a slightly faster but still smooth pace: “‘An hundred years should go to praise/Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;’”

Ryan grits his teeth, biting back a moan, not wanting Joe to have the pleasure of seeing him in this state, not knowing that he already sees it clearly. He crosses and uncrosses his legs, hoping for a little bit of friction, needing—aching for—some relief from the very inconvenient swelling arising in that very inconvenient area. It’s not doing any good, so he gets up, crosses over to the door of the conference room, shuts the door, and begins to pace.

Finally, as Joe reaches the last stanza—

Ryan can’t take it anymore. He knows that in a matter of seconds he’s going to explode or resolve the situation himself, and either way he can’t be in the conference room when it happens. He turns the doorknob and strides to the restroom quickly, purposefully, like a man on a mission—which he has to suppose, in a way, he is. Finding the first stall empty, he dashes into it and turns the lock.

Joe holds back a smile each time Ryan disappears from view only to appear on the next camera. It was hell getting a camera into the men’s room of FBI headquarters, but oh, was it worth it. He reads off the last six lines slowly, quietly, like he’s in a hotel room with Ryan somewhere and it’s just the two of them and all the time in the world: “‘Let us roll all our strength, and all/Our sweetness, up into one ball;/And tear our pleasures with rough strife/Thorough the iron gates of life./Thus, though we cannot make our sun/Stand still, yet we will make him run.’”

That’s it. Ryan’s reached his absolute limit. He’s turned on to the fullest, and he needs the release **now**. He roughly brushes his thumb along one of the buttons of his phone, desperately needing his hand free, needing Joe not to know what he’s about to do. He haphazardly tosses the phone into his pocket and brings his hand where it needs to be. It’s been a long time, but he still remembers what works best. His movements are quick, measured, almost ghostlike. Then the sudden, panicked thought: _“Wait—is anyone else in here?”_ He smacks his left hand against the cool metal of the stall, and when it’s revealed that he’s the only man in the room, he finally gives broken voice to everything—the anguish, the frustration, the hatred, the determination, but most of all the pent-up need and lust that had probably always been boiling but had never come to the forefront until Joe brought it there and the pleasure building now that he’s finally doing something about it. The analytical part of his brain briefly comes back to the surface long enough to think _“Oh my God, I’m glad no one else is in here. I sound like a whore,”_ but then another move and the analytical part is gone, replaced by the discordant mixture of feelings and the ever-present image of Joe, his mortal enemy and his guilty pleasure, his favorite drug, stronger than the strongest vodka or the purest heroin, simultaneously giving and taking with each move he made in their twisted game. He moans again and speeds up.

Ryan hadn’t hung up. In his lust-dazed state, he’d thought he had, but he hadn’t. Joe’s own longing grows as from his distant perch he watches the agent take matters into his own hands, but then Ryan moans—a low, wanton, utterly wrecked sound just loud enough to penetrate the fabric of his pocket and hit Joe’s ears like a velvet hammer. As the camera movie and the phone soundtrack continue, they increase in intensity—especially the sound. It echoes throughout his brain and brings every cell in his body to full attention. This isn’t the feeling he gets from killing a beautiful woman, but it’s good enough and just as strong. If he never gets to kill again or listen to normal music again—hell, even if he goes deaf—he’ll still be able to hear Ryan’s rising moans, the sweetest song in the world forever encased inside his mind. Finally, Ryan shivers and lets out a muffled cry—it could be Joe’s name or a curse or just a nonsense syllable—and now Joe can no longer stand it. He hangs up the phone and goes to work on himself, his pivotal moment a thousand times stronger than in the past once he imagines Ryan’s pivotal moment rushing from his agent into his own body.

Ryan cleans himself up as best he can and goes back to the tech room to join Mike in examining the latest digital evidence. He still feels the shame from letting himself be manipulated (and from secretly hoping it’ll happen again—maybe when he’s at home and no one can bother him?), but he manages to compose himself to the point where only the tips of his ears are slightly pink. He shuts down the hope, replacing it with an absolute certainty. Maybe he didn’t mean to enjoy metaphysical phone sex with a serial killer, but enjoy it he had—it was all part of playing cat and mouse—and oh yes, it **would** happen again. Joe would make sure of it. Ryan shakes his head. “ _OK, we’re two sides of the same coin. If something in my life had gone differently maybe we’d be literal partners in crime—and maybe in other things—but that’s exactly why I’m the only one who can catch him. Back to business.”_


End file.
